Leaves that flick at the years before me, maniacal, seething. The first of a now-suburban dead. With nobody watching him he softly buried grass. I chomp on weeds & in my sleep bears make me wear things that keep out the sound of American Creek. The wet candle is in the ground, all by its little old self.
Clouded eyes, a smile erased by Steelers. Suburbs seen from a steel train. An engine is switched on, or off. Braces, but he’s my brother. Shall we? Months out here, solo sniper. I prefer bi-products. Destined for lines, let bullets whine & thrum. Pixels, music. In the morning. Gas seeing you. Was.
I think about lots of things every day. Cats, don’t ask me. Yes, I saw it, once. Do you? I didn’t think so. Look at you. Best wishes for the morons’ reunion, & year seven! Well, then can I ask – it just goes to show what? Yes, I’m fit. Collegians. Running’s meant to be bad. My two brothers, American troops.
We were caught stealing or smoking conversations, keeping guard. We’d have some kind of hobby that’s not the boys. My tight school tunic hugs, rushing past us four teenage girls. We can’t help it. Older than you think, anyway. Star’s pointing me with the cord that joins us, bitumen and all.
Sound save for the odd raindrop. Op. We’d recovered we marched, out of ordnance, of secret tunnel dumps. Tops. It’s totally Full Metal Jacket. Returning home, mum read the tale, in the direction of Mt Kembla. I had the months and all I saw was jungle, flicker of t-shirts between two trees.
Brits. Something snaps & my ear is visible to me, in the air. Energy of. I rode down it once, without brakes, balls, powerless to resist. Try this. A ripple on the sports oval. The bell. Summer. Dad’s got a map out already. The way she sits there, thinking of ovals, & the churn of American Creek.
Classrooms. I listen to the bells but smell it on the bridge by the Creek with Ralph every Saturday each year. A loon would know. Or Smokie. Any smokes. Sure Brian’s got some. He’d get used to it. They’ll have to. Might even hear a sound of the creek. Afternoons of revision, correction?
Just a memory now, like the fig tree someone chopped it off at the waist. That often now. Or the fig tree stump. Anyway, what’s in a suburb’s name? Out at Holsworthy. No, Ralph will do. Ralph Leyland’s about right. Malvern. Talked to any of them? O’Briens Rd? A fig tree in the Fairlane’s rear-view.
About the author
Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.
View his full biography.